


After the Fire

by industriousrevolution



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game), RWBY
Genre: AU, Archaic Prose, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Multi, OCs - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Pre-Volume 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 13:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8403151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/industriousrevolution/pseuds/industriousrevolution
Summary: “Oh!” she starts again. “It’s… my name’s Cinder. Cinder Ella.”





	1. Initiation Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello - and welcome to my first RWBY fic. This is somewhat of a fusion of RWBY and the game Darkest Dungeon - though no knowledge of that game is required - and takes place about 30 or so years before canon starts. Please let me know what you think!

The gateways mankind have placed upon themselves are guarded by tradition. Rites of passage have been revealed to occur even in our most ancient of civilizations. Stroll back through the millennia of history, uncover the ancient earth of our ancestors tombs, and the you shall see that unbroken line of self-devised and self-inflicted activity. We test ourselves, so that those found wanting are banished from the halls of the worthy. From an early age I learned this; from my childhood haunts and adolescent scraps at combat schools, all remained the same. In all walks of life, this has remained constant.

There can be no initiation, without blood.

The Widow spits yet another barrage of acid-green globules; recessed eyes glint in the afternoon sun, dark and beady, filled with hatred for all things human. But its acidic spray does not touch my flesh as I dive to the side, rolling through the long grass. The impact of its missed strike scatters the clay-like soil of the savannah all over my coat and hands and neck. Faintly, I can hear the hiss of its venom as the substance begins to eat its way through the ground, and form the hollow pits that are this Grimm’s trademark.

Yet my Aura remains strong, if not pure, the result of a lifetime of training and my family’s own rites and rituals. That force, that substance which separates the animal from the abomination. I can withstand a killing blow with will alone, turn aside sharpened spears and jagged daggers with bare hands. What are mere dirt and grime compared to such things? 

Yes, a Huntsman, even one such as I, yet to be fully trained, and having not yet fulfilled my school’s initiation, is made of far sterner stuff than flesh and sinew alone.

I am shielded by all that I am. I remain immaculate.

The dark creature chirps in rage as I get to my feet, staring the monster down. From the holster at the back of my coat, I draw my weapon, the dueling pistol which my ancestor named “Time,” and level it at my foe.

The Widow is an enormous, spider-like creature with 10 legs and 10 glowing red eyes; it stands the size of a small truck or a large sedan. The thing is covered in coarse hair; a white hourglass marking lies upon its belly, and white shards of bone what passes for a face among the Grimm.

I cock the hammer of my weapon back as it charges at me, the creature’s many-jointed legs scurrying, eager to devour my flesh with its beaked maw. It chirps again, a horrid click-click as its maw snaps in anticipation.

For my part, I grin as I face it.

“Foolish horror!” my deep voice booms outwards. “Brought low!”

I fire, and the Dust in the weapon ignites: an artificial roar of sound and scent. 

The creature crumples as the single round of ammunition I carry, the shot known as “World,” pierces one of those eight glowing red eyes, traverses its brain cavity, and weaving its way through the things body, explodes out the center of that white widow’s mark.

“And driven into the mud!”

Momentum carries it forward, but the husk that was once a thread is already beginning to fade away; without a will to drive it, the carcass, simply slides to my feet, hairy legs barely brushing against polished boots.

I spare a moment to savor my kill, before extracting World from its place amidst the ichor of the dead Grimm. Looking at the sky, I sigh in disgust; it’s going to be dark soon. The savanna is vast and open and for all I can see, empty.

There are still two days left to go.

______________________________________________________________________________

I know not how the other Huntsman Academies perform their initiations, but Shade Academy holds to endurance, and in the freedom to choose. Unlike the other Academies, they take a very lax view in their philosophies, loathe to create rules, eager to allow their students “room to grow and flourish as they see fit.”

It is little wonder that Shade is considered the worst of the Four Huntsman Academies, the easiest to get into, and the clear underdog in every Vytal Festival Tournament.

Shade was far from my first choice, of course - I applied to all of them; even in our current state of affairs, my family could well afford the application fees. My proven record at Sanctum Academy, had been more than adequate; a distinguished instructor had written effusively of my skill with Semblance and weapon alike; I had even risen to earn the bronze medal my senior year in the Mistral Regionals. But of course, my family name counted against me - none of the other Academies, including Atlas, my first choice, were willing to have me. Even now, they feared to take responsibility for the instillment of martial prowess to one bearing that foul, hated surname.

It is one of life’s little ironies that Shade, the most liberal of the academies, was the only one willing to take me, even as my native Haven would not. Not, of course, that I could blame that school; the War… had not been kind to it.

The Initiation Shade required, therefore, was a reflection of their philosophy - endurance and freedom. Early this morning, we, along with the rest of my would-be peers, had been dropped into the wild savannah with nothing but a map and a canteen of water. In three days, we would be picked up at a given site; during this time, we would neither be supervised nor interfered with. Yet by the time we were to be extracted, we were expected to have formed up into teams of four, chosen by mutual accord.

As much as I enjoy the chance to prove my worth… I will admit that there were misgivings to be had. Rejection is a terrible affair, even to one used to it. When the new headmaster had asked for comments or queries, I had shamefully remained silent, even as my own burned within me.

What if none would have me? I had skill, yes. But nearly two decades of effective social isolation had made those softer skills nearly alien to me; I could command, yes, but to cooperate, to listen, to advise… simply to talk as a peer were activities I was rarely able to partake in.

My stomach rumbles again - I hadn’t had the chance to breakfast; too little time after I woke. Mornings are… difficult.

I scowl at the now-wrinkled paper. If I were indeed reading the thing correctly… I was getting closer to one of the supply drops. Food. Water. A tent for shelter. Wood for fire. True, I could subsist without the latter two, could endure the night without sleep or succor… but even I had my limits. My Semblance is deep, and I have yet to fully grasp or control all its terrible manifestations.

The sun is nearly halfway over the horizon when I see the supply drop; the half-deployed parachute lies draped over the branches of a great baobab tree. Luminescent panels on its sides ensure that any would-be student has a clear line of sight to it.

As can only be expected, I see other students; a trio ahead of me, another foursome moving past, their arms and backs filled with boxes. I quicken my pace.

“Hallo from behind!” My voice booms out, my normal confidence shaken, and a normally impressive cry cracking due to adolescence and nerves. “Room for one more?”

The three of them turn warily to face me - there are Grimm in the savannah capable of mimicking human speech. Not enough to strike a conversation, of course, but enough to distract and delude while an ambush is prepared. Silently, I applaud them for their caution. Yes, this might indeed be a fortuitous night…. 

And yet that approval, that… that [i]hope[/i], is instantly snuffed out, as the leader of the trio snorts at my appearance. She is tall, haughty, arrogant, her nose wrinkles in instant and hypocritical judgement.

“What are you even wearing?” she mocks - a shallow insult for a shallow individual. She herself is no better than I in that regard, and perhaps far worse. My clothing, as impractical as it might seem at first glance, is well suited to a Huntsman’s tasks, and if the cut of the velvet frock is a bit archaic… then let it be known that I had no choice in the matter. That I had been allowed to choose the color alone (a rich and full tawny, the exact shade of the darkest honey) had been no small miracle.

Yes, the insipid woman herself came out far worse than I. The black dress was, in and of itself, acceptable, though the “combat skirt” concept was a frankly ludicrous fad at best. No, the issue was that damnable pelt across her shoulders - a sad attempt at imitating a Beowulf’s natural armor. Completely tasteless, and obviously fake to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of the Grimm.

I meet her gaze with my own, and perhaps allow a touch of my Semblance to coalesce. A spark of indeterminate [i]Other[/i] is lit in my gaze; a glimmering of What Lies Beyond. The First Sign appears: my sigil - a black arc pierced by five inward spikes - imposes itself upon my pupil.

Her face pales as she takes in that awful visage, feels that unnatural and true Dread.

“Clothes,” I respond, simply enough.

Her face continues to pale at my singular word, even as one of her companions lets out an involuntary giggle; under the effects of my minor working, my voice has turned hollow, cavernous and unnaturally echoing. I smell her fear, that reflection of the true effects of this manifestation.

I can feel the sly and arcane power course through my veins, whispering sibilant suggestions in my ear - tactics, stratagems crafted from centuries of refinement. It would be so simple, of course. So very…

No. Control. Always, control.

I close my eyes, and when they open once more, my Semblance has withdrawn.

“You… you’re….”

“Yes,” I say shortly, before turning my attention towards the other two members of their party.

The second member of their gathering looks similar to the haughty one; cheeks and nose and pointed chin all identical. Yet while she is slender, bordering on skinny, his frame is bulky, and stout, with muscles rippling over his body. She wore a gown and stole that would not be out of place in a high society ball; he garbed himself in a utilitarian leather vest - true leather, not an insulting imitation of something far better -, a drinking horn and a Bowie knife at his belt. Yet that same, holier-than-thou expression, that arrogance was fixed upon his face.

But the third member of their party, the one who giggled at my rejoinder, she is far more fascinating. She looks nothing like the other two, no family resemblance at all: short hair the deep black of midnight, delicate features, and amber-red eyes silently pleading for help.

“Hello,” I say to her - and only to her. “I am Ambrosius…”

No. No, that is far too formal for this occasion. Charm, poise, eloquence… no, the latter two are useless here!

“What… what’s your name?”

The powerful voice I’ve inherited, and the timbre instilled from birth,,, have crumbled under the weight of my nervousness. 

“Don’t answer that, [i]sis[/i]” the leader’s brother scowls. I find myself puzzled by the term he uses - she looks nothing alike. “He’s a [i]Darkest[/i].”

She flinches at that - and those gorgeous eyes turn away, her already skittish movements and poise in retreat, dependent… helpless.

That reaction is one all too familiar to me. I shall be forever judged by my family’s actions. I would say that I have become accustomed to it… but such withdrawals do not get easier with time.

I will not allow this to happen again! Not now! Not here, so far from home and without the so-called comfort of my family to back me! 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I say, admitting to my heritage. I rack my brains and memory, countless hours spent being tutors in the ways and names of high society. Thankfully, I come across the answer. “But you can’t choose your family… Ermine.” 

The leader flinches as I name her. Her body language is guarded, but I see with an outsider’s eye. 

“And of course that makes you Guere,” I continue, referring to the brute. “But I’ve never heard about a third sibling….”

“Shut up!” Her hands shake but she still has some skill to her. The two siblings draw their weapons, levelling them at me. Ermine’s gown has a braided belt at the waist, one that I dismissed, to my detriment, without further examination; a simple twist, and it unravels into a wicked-looking whip with a black orb at its base. Guere’s weapon, that Bowie knife, quickly unfurls into a longspear, the thick blade supported by a wicked-looking cross-brace, a bulbous cylinder perched on the butt.

“We don’t take kindly to poaching,” Ermine drawls. “Especially when it’s family.”

Their companion has gone very still in the interim, not trusting herself to make any moves.

It is not so one-sided as it might seem. Though I am outnumbered, Time is in my hand, and while the antique duelling pistol is seemingly outmatched by their more modern arsenal, I know far better.

“This late in the day, that supply drop probably won’t have enough for all of us,” Ermine sneers. “Why don’t you find another one?”

Obstinance and pride keep me upon my feet, but it is that most rare of emotions, hope, which propel me to continue. There is someone here who might not judge me for what was done decades ago. I will not abandon that.

“She has the chance to choose her team,” I adopt a lighter tone even as my hand remains steady. The pistol isn’t pointed at either of them, but a point halfway between the two of them. “Isn’t what this rite is all about?”

Their eyes take in at my weapon. It appears to be crafted of wood and steel

“You think that little trinket’s going to do anything to us, Darkest?” Ermine spits my name out like the curse it has become. “You only have one shot for the both of us!”  
My grin widens.

“I only require one.” 

I spare a second to refocus my gaze upon the object of our little dispute. My words come far too slowly. “Unless… of course… you are… satisfied with your current...”  
“No!”

The word bursts from her lips in a gasp, in a squeak, in a sudden release of pent-up emotion. Her eyes immediately widen, and she claps her hands to her mouth.

“I… I mean… yes! I mean… I want to go with you!”

“Excellent!” I begin to strafe to the right, towards my new partner and eventually, to the supply drop itself.

They don’t attack, of course. When it was two on one, they had felt confident. Now, with the one they had bullied for so long compromised and in a position of relative strength they wouldn’t dare, lest she lash out with all of her hatred. 

“Then Ermine… Guere... I shall see you at Shade. Madam?”

I proffer my arm, pistol still pointed at the pair, and she can’t help but giggle at the sight. The sound is… really quite pleasant.

“And a good night to you both!” I cry out, as we fade into the long grass, and I finally remember to holster .

“So… I realize… we’ve never been introduced” I say quietly. 

“Oh!” she starts again. “It’s… my name’s Cinder. Cinder Ella.”

“I’m Ermine and Guere’s stepsister.”


	2. Initiation Part II

Huntsman doctrine is very clear about the protocol for encampment in a Grimm-infested area. Such experiences are part and parcel of the typical Huntsman’s endeavors; it is, after all, our sworn duty to not only defend the humans of Remnant from the creatures of Grimm, but to advance the cause of humanity. Whether it be alone in the woods or as a collective whole, survival is the same: prepare, persist, and overcome. And especially in recent years, this latter portion had been given greater emphasis.

In Vale, for example, a great expansion of the kingdom was already underway - a shining new endeavor to add to their collective caps. While my family had been thoroughly ousted from the corridors of power, I had enough training in the political sciences to recognize that Mistral and the others were undoubtedly drawing up similar plans themselves. While the Four Kingdoms would not dare engage each other in the military skirmishes and bloody conflict that had been a hallmark of the past, other, more subtle ways in which each would attempt to prove their superiority would serve in their place, including, of course, the Vytal Festival.

In any event, the relevant protocols are well established, and as such, my new companion and I did not need to exercise our imaginations to determine where we were to be staying. While protocol typically dictated that a team of four be used, there were of course variations suitable for other numbers.

The first step, of course, was the determination of when to begin the encampment process. For obvious reasons, the creatures of Grimm were far more prevalent at night, where the unconscious fears and biases of humanity more easily take hold in the psyche, and pluck at the fragile strings that tether our reason to our actions. It is therefore highly recommended that a campsite be identified and set up either shortly before or at least not very long after sunset.

Unfortunately for my companion, we do not have the luxury of that time or location, as our departure the other two members of the Ella family had necessitated that we part ways and keep our distance. By the time we are able to find a suitable campsite, the sun had nearly set.

The second step, once one has determined that encampment is necessary, is to select a site, the most essential quality of which are barriers, ways in which the angles the enemy might attack would be limited. In most cases, this barrier would be water; nearly all Grimm cannot cross deep or running water - through artificial running water does not have this same effect. Fortunately for the two of us, we are able to find a stream to which we could put our backs. 

The site having been chosen, we agree to split up the necessary work of maintaining the site. Being a gentleman, I offer to dig the latrine and prepare the firepit while Cinder would set up our sole tent. In accordance with the protocol, at no point would the neither of us be on watch for any hostile forces.

The supplies left to us by Shade were thankfully more than adequate to the task at hand. The humble entrenching tool was spotted with rust in some areas, and perhaps dated to the Great War itself, but was still a serviceable device, whatever its inferiorities might be. With effort, I was able to create our latrine in short order - the sun having perhaps halfway to setting.

In this area, I will admit to having misidentified the order of the protocols. While the latrine was a vital part of any encampment, it is of course secondary to the firepit - a communal or even solitary flame being especially noted for its manifold useful properties. Warmth, yes, and illumination (though the latter was less of a concern for myself) but the true worth of a fire came not from its flame but from the inner fire which it enkindled. The well-documented effects of morale were heralded by Huntsman and proto-Huntsman since the dawn of humanity; from the one known simply as “Henderson” to the legendary Peter Port himself.

It is to my great shame and embarrassment, therefore, that I delayed in the creation of that essential fire. Oh, I was able to find suitable rocks with which to mark the boundaries, and our supply drop held within it a bundle of wood for burning… but my prowess with flint and tinder admittedly is something in which I am found wanting.

“Are… are you having a problem?”

I start at the sound of my current partner’s voice. She has great skill in the art of stealth, I must admit - she knows how to move unheard; though I cannot, for obvious reasons, determine whether that skill extends to moving _unseen_.

She attempts, with very limited success, not to laugh my reaction, and what begins as a mere giggle quickly turns into a full-on guffaw at my expense. And yet, upon seeing my stony reaction to her merriment, she almost immediately withdraws that emotion with the swift ease of long practice - a thought which I find more than a little disquieting.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she mumbles, her head bowed submissively. The image before me is one of complete contrition, and I feel my stomach swiftly descend as the caging of that swift and spontaneous joy. Dimly, I recall that it is, in fact, a boon to have such positive emotions at the front in such a place, and yet this is not my dominant line of reasoning in the slightest.

“I didn’t mean to -”

I move closer to Cinder Ella, and place a finger upon the bottom of her chin. I push upwards upon that lone digit, until her face stares into mine.

“The fault,” I say, slowly. “Is mine. There… there is nothing for you to be forgiven for.”

I then realize the intimacy of my gesture, and swiftly withdraw, retreating to a more socially appropriate distance. My tutors would be most displeased at my actions were they to see me currently, and I myself cannot help but feel inadequate; outside of their sessions, in a less controlled setting, I have not heeded their advice. Were it not for her presence before me, I would not believe that I, performing the actions which I have, could have a partner currently.

“I…” I begin, only to trail off, at a loss for words. “The…”

My gaze flicks from her visage, her pink cheeks to briefly focus on the pile of dry wood which is to be our campfire.

“Yes!” I cry out, perhaps a trifle loudly. “I… ah….”

Not only have my manners failed me, but my vocabulary and very organs of speech as well. In my frustration, I gesture at the fire, silently berating myself for my inability, and yet… Cinder appears to understand the message. Slender fingers retrieve the tools I had so carelessly discarded, she need only strike once, and deliver a series of quick exhalations to the small pile of kindling I had set to set the flame.

She turns to me with amusement in her eyes, and I cannot help but shrink back, my eyes drawn to the source of my inadequacy. How could she accept as a partner one with such great shortcomings? Unable to complete a simple task in an equitable division of labor? As competent as she appeared, she could doubtless court any number of suitable team arrangements - I could not expect that she would stay with me the next two days in the slight -

Her hand is upon my shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, and I can feel the warmth of her breath, the tingle of her touch as our Auras dance and intermingle. “We can’t all be perfect at everything. I’ve had practice at this before…”

She looks at a point beyond my shoulder, her voice trembling and hesitant at her next words.

“Was… was that your first time? Lighting a fire, I mean.”

“No?!” My voice, still unfortunately caught between the resonant timbres that are my birthright and the trebles of youth, is torn. “No! I’ve set fires before…. Just… not….”

I trail off as I take in her smile once more. It is a thing without adequate words to describe. There are doubtless more beautiful women than she, in finer attire and without the callouses of a Huntress’s life. Her hair is shorn short in that modern look which I find unduly masculine. And yet… she is greater than those mere parts. There is a warmth to her expressions which I find myself drawn to. A sense of the merely real which has been heretofore lacking in my brief existence upon Remnant, between the polished social masks of my tutors, the indifference and vague hostility of my peers at combat school, and that great spectre which rises above my family.

“It’s fine,” she winks at me. “Come on, Ambrosius. Let’s see what we’ve been given for dinner.”

She saunters past me, and my mind must have turned to some flight of fancy, for it insisted that she’d trailed her fingertips down my sleeve as she moved back towards her pack. For my part, I can only stand there dumbfounded at the phantom and unreal sensation.

After our meal, the two of us sit in companionable silence by the fire, preparing the dessert - a traditional Vacuuan delicacy consisting of crackers, chocolate, and a white, sponge-like substance which is roasted over the open flame. The flickering tongues which she birthed are reflected within her eyes - an image that would inspire one to paint, or write, or create art, should they have the talent or inclination. I possess none of those skills, and yet….

My attentions are uncouth and rude. I look away, and pray that she does not inquire as to either my initial gaze or its removal. As fortune would have it, however, she has not appeared to notice - her eyes are narrowed as she stares into the heart of the flames.

“What’s it like?” she asks abruptly.

“I… I beg your pardon?” I cannot help but be befuddled by my companion - an insidious combination of confusion and fascination. I cannot follow her thoughts, yet she speaks to me as if I could. Should I be able to?

“Your… your family,” she thankfully clarifies. “What’s….” she trails off.

I nod, solemnly. “What’s it like,” I continue. “To be a Darkest.”

“...Yes.”

Propriety demands that she be embarrassed by such a question, and yet, the way she shrinks in on herself, the manner in which she withdraws and retreats… I find it unacceptable. I am affronted by the shy creature who emerges when her boldness fades away.

My eyes stare into the flame, though my sight lies elsewhere.

_The shattered moon drips blood-red this night. The man chants that ancient and ancestral psalm, the unhemmed edge of his black homespun robe brushing against bare ankles. Bare feet move to that primal rhythm, flesh slapping weakly against cold and bare stone. His procession takes him to the altar, where the infant lies within the circle. The man - my father, raises his dagger -_

I shake my head, and with the aid of my shoulders indicate that sort of helplessness which comes with limitations.

“I… I could not say,” I find myself saying. “I know not what it is to be part of any other family.”

_I see, and I remember that great event though another eyes. The sight of my infant body, strange and all-too familiar upon that altar, surrounded by that circle of Dust, and illuminated only by the flickering and tenebrous candlelight. My father raises the dagger, and cuts that first scar into my chest - still chanting, still in rapt supplication, uncaring of my wailing and plaintive cries. The blood drips from the tip of the dagger upon the circle of White Dust… and the light… the promise of safety…_

As my lifeblood seeps forth, terrible vistas of emptiness reveal themselves - the earliest memory that I can recall, though it is not mine in the slightest.

“We are hated,” I speak softly. “And perhaps for good reason. Our family ruled Mistral until the Great War. And then… ruin.”

Every schoolboy in Remnant knows the tale of my family’s fall; I need not elaborate further.

“Ruin came for us all.”

Her touch upon my forearm stirs me from my reminiscences.

“You’re not just your family, Ambrosius,” she attempts to reassure me, even as my heart begins to be beat with unnatural fervor at her proximity. I am near enough a man, yet this is the first time a woman not of my blood has been so close. “You’re here. You… you’re different from them.”

“You… you can’t know that,” I find myself declaring. “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because you saved me.”

I turn to look at her properly, and I see the dried tear-tracks upon her face. There is such raw emotion upon that visage that I cannot look away.

“I’ve… I’ve spent my whole life in their shadow,” she says, trembling despite the heat of the flames. “Don’t stand out, don’t speak up, do what you’re told. I only came here because my father was able to ensure that I did before… before he died, and I was alone.”

I nod, briefly. The Ella family was a fixture in high society - my tutors had had me memorize lists of names as part of my own estate’s antiquated teachings, though we were, for obvious reasons, never invited to such gatherings. I dimly recall that Tremaine Ella married thrice and all such joinings ended shortly afterwards, as tragedy struck her partners.  
Or… perhaps not.

“This was going to be my escape,” she continues, though her voice has already begun to waver and her composure has long since cracked. “And they followed me here and -”

“They are not here now,” I say, as I stand perched upon the twin horns of dilemma. Do I initiate greater contact to reassure her, or allow her the strength and dignity to find herself without need of assistance? Would I be forward - far too forward - if I did? Does that matter in this instance?

Paralyzed by indecision, I do nothing, and know that this, too, is a choice.

“And… you are not alone, should you wish not to be.”

My thumb brushes against the back of her hand. I dare not go further.

“Please,” I say, instead. “Allow me to take the first shift.”

She thankfully agrees, and retires to the tent while I stand watch. Now alone, ensconced within the darkness and flame, I ponder the future, and this first day as a student of Shade Academy.

We had both bared something of ourselves that evening, and it is that release, that catharsis that drew them to us. I hear the sound of thundering hooves and the snorts and whinnies of our foes.

They are coming.

I move quickly to rouse my companion - she is a light sleeper, though I cannot help but feel awkward as I do so. Even still, there is little enough time.

“What… what…”

“They are coming,” I say. “The Creatures of Grimm.”

Her eyes snap to full openness, and there is a steeled determination in them. She has been beaten down by her family, but even they would not dare leave her undefended against our most ancient of foes.

“What kind,” her voice remains level.

“Nightmares.”

I see them before she does - unhindered as I am by the mere absence of light. I see the herd of Nightmares approach - 18 hands tall, with black pelts and white chitinous armor upon their legs. Their eyes glow red in the night, recessed orbs within their skull-like heads.

I can feel my blood begin to pump, as that ancient fighting spirit is roused within me. Let my social inadequacies be now scattered and made irrelevant! Let my standing among peers count for naught! For I come now to face our enemy and I shall prevail!

Cinder is beside me, her hands upon twin scimitars. But I wish to show her what I can do - show her that I am indeed worthy of being her partner.

“And now,” A thought, and the fire loses its luster. I breathe in pure and newly born darkness, as the First Sign once more imposes itself upon my pupils. “The darkness holds dominion. Black as Death!”

“Ambrosius!” she calls out. “I… I can’t see!”

The Grimm come closer, and I feel that ancient and familiar power building within, waiting to be unleashed.

“Ambrosius,” her voice quavers. “Light! I need light!”

“Light,” I say, as I draw my pistol. “Yes. Light. There shall be light!”

Time’s well-worn grip fits loosely within my hand, as I caress its ancient hammer.

“A match is struck,” I intone, and cock it back. “A blazing star is born!”

I fire into the heart of the herd, and and World streaks forth, a blazing star in and of itself, a pure white orb which shines with all the ethereal radiance of the shattered moon. My aim is true, and the leadmost Nightmare falls - but there is yet more to come.

Reaching outwards with sense and Semblance, I grasp that darkness around the orb , still in flight after boring through its first target, and squeeze with hands made of pact and power passed through generations of the Darkest family. That small segment darkness collapses into a true Void, a thing of Absolute Nothingness. World smacks into that Void… and its light blazes forth once more as it ricochets and rebounds in a new trajectory, towards a new target.

The darkness still surrounds me, and it holds much worse than mere trickery and boogeymen. I, the heir to the Darkest Estate have indeed inherited my ancestral power. I _shuffle_ to a new location upwind of the herd. As I exit our campfire’s vicinity, the light in that area returns, and as World streaks towards me, I hold forth Time to catch it. Laughing and wailing as the now confused herd begins to trample over its former members, I fire again, and send more to their final oblivion, directing that singular shot with controlled use of my Semblance.

Eventually, the herd scatters, and I _shuffle_ once more to World’s final resting spot, bending over to pick it up -

And am knocked into the ground!

In my haste and arrogance… I did not account for the Recurant of the herd - the oldest and cleverest among them. I see that my fire has wounded it - motes of darkness peeling forth from the flesh in its leg - but I am unable to capitalize on such an injury. Rearing onto its hind legs, pointed hooves slam into my sternum, and my hand involuntarily releases Time.

The Recurrant stands far taller than any other Nightmare. It is… a travesty – a blundering mountain of hatred… and rage. I see the creature up close, and, I confess, as my Aura rapidly diminishes, I close my eyes…

_thwip_

_**thump** _

… only as the seconds pass, and I carefully open them once more, to see the creature already fading, having fallen on its side, an arrow shaft protruding from its eye socket.

“Every dream fades away,” she says, a wide and knowing grin upon her features. She… enjoyed that phrase far more than ought to be proper. But… I cannot help but smile at it, myself. “Need a hand up?”

Chagrined at my foolishness and recklessness, I take it.


End file.
